


a sip from my devil's cup

by thimble



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2672675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's just to prove a point."</p><p>"What point?"</p><p>"That I don't taste like shit."</p>
            </blockquote>





	a sip from my devil's cup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waldowest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldowest/gifts).



> happy birthday izzy. also i hate you

"Somehow I'm not surprised," says Muro-chin, fingertips self-consciously flitting about his neck. "Like, why didn't I figure it out earlier?"

Atsushi's eyes tracks his hand intently, watching the skin flush closer to red the longer they lingered. "I'm good at hiding it." In a gesture that supercedes casual he reaches up and peels the collar of Muro-chin's jacket from his shoulder, for a better view. Muro-chin trembles below his palm, with laughter and something else.

"You were, but..." He takes a breath and holds it when Atsushi replaces his fingers with his own, inspecting the placement of his veins, stumbling upon a mole on the curve of his ear. "Your diet consisted solely of junk food. You had to have been getting nutrition from somewhere."

"Maybe I take vitamins." If Atsushi still had a pulse it would be mimicking the beat of Muro-chin's right now, like a stopwatch on steriods. This time Muro-chin smiles at his joke but he doesn't laugh; can't, on account of still holding his breath. Atsushi's lips thin the way they do when he has to steal patience from his dwindling reserves. "You can relax. I'm not gonna eat you."

"You're not?" Muro-chin blinks and finally exhales, though his pulse doesn't slow. He'd be such a goner if Atsushi were lying.

"Wanna," Atsushi clarifies, like his lidded eyes don't give it away. Isn't Muro-chin supposed to be good at reading people? Granted, he's not _really_ a person, but thinking of it like that hurts his feelings. "But I won't."

Muro-chin has that expression he wears when he's in a combative mood, one misplaced comment or accidental shoulder bump from throwing his fist into the nearest face. "Why? Afraid I won't taste good?"

Ridiculous. Atsushi pokes his cheek, catching both of them off-guard. "Does Muro-chin want me to eat him?"

"Well," says Muro-chin. His stare flickers from Atsushi's protruding fangs, returns to his eyes. "It's just to prove a point."

"What point?"

"That I don't taste like shit."

"Stupid Muro-chin." Atsushi's not sure how his palm ends up cupping Muro-chin's jaw, thumb stroking his cheekbone under the bangs. "If you taste bad then you probably won't die." Not from Atsushi's lack of control, or another of his kind turning him into their meal. Bad blood gets spit out like all rotten food should.

"Probably? Are you saying you might kill me?"

"It could happen. Then who's gonna buy my snacks?"

Muro-chin's current grin spells out his death wish. "Exactly. So try not to."

Atsushi rolls his eyes and tries not to think about how Muro-chin might as well have planted a bomb between his teeth and given Atsushi the detonator. A messier way to kick the proverbial bucket, but quicker and not as painful. "Stupid," he repeats, though his mouth waters when Muro-chin tilts his head and exposes the slope of his neck. With two reverent fingertips Atsushi locates his pulse again; he leans close, inhales deep, whispers,

"Here I go."

Muro-chin makes a noise as he sinks in, soft and a little hurt. Atsushi knows that sharpness is temporary, that it will soon ebb into a hazy, dreamlike pleasure, but he rubs circles into Muro-chin's nape and squeezes the patch of hip where his other hand had landed, his best attempt at comfort.

He never claimed to be an expert.

At least his prediction rings true when Muro-chin moans quietly, an inch from Atsushi's ear. Atsushi will admit he's drifting from tiny detail to tiny detail because the flood of sensation on his tongue is almost too overwhelming, and even the largest ships won't say no to an anchor.

He thinks of gentle fingers sifting through his hair, of a voice that follows him wherever he goes (or is it him that follows it?), of an infuriating smile he absolutely can't lose—

_red rich red thick and warm saltier than stew richer than chocolate fudge taste of regret sorrow marred by tentative joy salt salt salt sweat tears and more tears_

—and he recovers himself from the brink, catching his breath out of sheer impulse, his lungs expanding with oxygen he doesn't need.

Muro-chin is wheezing. That's the only word for the hurried rise and fall of his chest. Atsushi licks the twin wounds in apology and makes a pointed effort not to laugh.

"I didn't die," says Muro-chin, the 'I told you so' obvious in his tone. Like Atsushi said earlier, ridiculous.

"Nope."

"Well? Did I taste good or not?"

Atsushi pulls back a fraction, wiping at the streams that had dripped along his chin. Muro-chin doesn't seem disturbed by the image, a challenging eyebrow cocked in its stead.

It's tempting to tell him the truth, that his blood may even be sweeter than his disposition. Atsushi bares his teeth in a grin and braces to get reacquainted with a well-loved right hook.

"Too salty. You should eat more candy."

( _So_ worth it.)


End file.
